


Questionable intent

by Lacerta



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers Tower, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blankets, Bucky Barnes Gets a Hug, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Deaf Clint Barton, Dog Cops (Marvel), Dom Clint Barton, Dom/sub, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, Getting Together, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Knifeplay, M/M, No Sex, Oblivious Clint Barton, POV Clint Barton, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sub Bucky Barnes, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29413653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacerta/pseuds/Lacerta
Summary: “Hey, Barnes. Enjoying the Tower so far?” Clint greets. He braces for the charm and the blinding smile in one, two...It never comes.Barnes' expression is luke-warm at best; calculating would probably be a better word. The man shrugs. “Sure,” he says and turns away.When Bucky Barnes comes to the Tower, Clint expects a sniper buddy and bonding time at the range. What he gets is an asshole who seems determined to antagonize Clint while charming the pants off the rest of the team. And that's just the beginning.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 34
Kudos: 177
Collections: 2021 Winterhawk Valentine's Day Exchange





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flowerparrish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/gifts).



> Perry! I hope you enjoy this fic! I chose your _enemies to lovers_ prompt and then went from zero to 15k really fast. It grew in ways I didn't expect, including the dom/sub tropes that I've never written before! It's exciting to me as a writer, I hope it's something you as a reader will enjoy as well. ^^  
> (Mind the tags! However, I promise everything ends well, the angst and their obliviousness end with a happy ending!)
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day!
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful veryrachael and [kocuria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kocuria), big kudos to them both! <3  
> Art by kocuria, thank you, my favourite potato-thief <3

* * *

* * *

The whole affair is a huge disappointment. Maybe it’s because Steve has been building up the hype for so long, talking about his best friend Bucky Barnes, that the real deal is bound to be disenchanting when it finally happens. Maybe it’s something else.

The Avengers are hanging out on the communal floor – well, not Thor. The god’s rarely on Earth these times. Even Bruce is in New York for the occasion, though. He arrived a couple of weeks earlier; in between his travels, he regularly visits the Tower for short periods to hole up in a lab and try out new ideas he brings from around the world. Bruce had originally intended to leave a few days earlier, but Tony bugged him and kept returning his plane tickets until he agreed to delay his plans.

It’s rare that they spend this much time in one place together outside of planned activities like training sessions, dinners or movie nights. Not that they don’t enjoy the company; it’s simply due to their scattered schedules and the sheer amount of space available for them in the Tower. Today is different: everyone wants to meet  _ the _ Bucky that Steve can’t ever shut up about.

Bruce is cooking dinner; in all honesty, he’s the only one with a legitimate reason to be there. The rest of them are improvising. Nat’s curled up on the couch reading something in Russian. She looks casual but Clint knows she’s of the opinion that the best background music for any book is complete silence, and where the Avengers are, there’s never quiet. Tony, being Tony, is bothering Bruce with a scientific version of 20 questions. Judging by Bruce’s fondly exasperated tone, they’re around question number 200. Sam mumbles to himself at the TV, doing his best to beat Clint’s record in Pacman. He’s failing. And even if he wasn’t, Clint never sets a high score that he can’t beat later. He likes to give them false hope.

Clint is watching the team from the mezzanine. He doesn’t feel like joining the efforts to look casual. After all, he’s a sniper. He sees best from a distance, and he wants to satisfy his curiosity more than he wants to be the first to shake Barnes’ hand. 

“Sir, Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes are on their way up,” JARVIS speaks up from Tony’s tablet. The team  _ almost  _ manages to act indifferent, but there’s sudden tension in the air, and even Nat shifts to have a better view of the elevator door.

When it opens with a ding – a ding that never sounds when it’s just them arriving home – everyone’s eyes are on the soldiers that step into the room.

“Bucky,” Steve starts with a positively giddy smile, ”this is the team. Avengers, this is Bucky.”

Bruce is the first to actually welcome Barnes. It’s a first; usually Tony’s blunt attitude strikes first, but from up above Clint can see a rare moment of indecisiveness. He suspects Stark is trying to decide between voicing the enthusiasm of his naturally loud persona and giving in to the unease of meeting his parents’ killer. Tony knows, of course – Steve couldn’t keep a secret like that for long – and he promised to try to get along, but that rational understanding doesn’t mean the emotions don’t bubble to the surface.

Eventually, Stark stumbles through a hasty greeting and excuses himself with an overdue project. It’s probably not even a lie, exactly, as Tony always has way too many projects on his plate.

In spite of that, Barnes is polite, charming even; he laughs and nods in appropriate moments, accepts friendly handshakes and pats on his shoulder, and responds to Sam’s light teasing with a cheeky joke. Natasha smiles at him amicably in a way that Clint recognises as honest, which is a good sign. Everyone seems excited, Steve more than anyone, and yet Clint’s glad he’s kept his distance. There’s about 120% chance he would’ve said something dumb if Barnes smiled at him with no warning. The old photos from the Smithsonian simply don’t do him justice: The Winter Soldier is  _ hot. _

When the first round of greetings is over and they all move towards the kitchen and the almost-ready dinner, Clint decides he won’t be any more prepared for having that handsome smile directed at him, no matter how long he stalls. He climbs down and joins the team.

“Hey, Barnes. Enjoying the Tower so far?” he greets. He braces for the charm and the blinding smile in one, two...

It never comes.

Barnes' expression is luke-warm at best; calculating would probably be a better word. The man shrugs. “Sure,” he says and turns back to Steve, his face immediately lighting up when he does.

Clint’s instinct is to turn to Nat for a second opinion, but she’s helping Bruce with the dishes and it looks like she didn’t see their exchange. She doesn’t act like she’s heard anything unexpected either, so that leaves Clint on his own to figure out what he messed up this time. Did he catch him by surprise? No, the Winter Soldier must’ve noticed him right from the start. Clint wasn’t even hiding! Did he say something wrong? That’s likely, he admits to himself, but for once in his life he’s pretty sure it’s not it.

Maybe Clint misunderstood what happened. Maybe it was a strange, one-time thing.

He pushes the disappointment aside. It’s a team dinner; he won’t spoil the mood with his own crushed hopes.

Barnes’ smile is still breathtaking even if not quite as pleasant to watch now that it seems that Clint doesn’t get to have it. 

***

Clint’s hope that it was just a one-time thing doesn’t survive very long. He tries being friendly a few more times, but after a week of Barnes giving him the cold shoulder his patience runs out. He’s a known advocate of second chances, but sometimes even the best of intentions aren’t enough.

Still, it bothers him. The Soldier is smoking hot, yes, but he didn’t expect him to find  _ Clint _ attractive in return, especially since he has a reputation of a ladies' man through and through, so it’s not about  _ that _ lost opportunity. It’s not even that Barnes doesn’t like him. Clint’s aware he’s an acquired taste; many people have told him so, not always politely. That would be fine. But Barnes got friendly with the other Avengers real quick. He’s even cautiously polite with Tony. But with Clint it’s like he can’t be bothered to even pretend to be friendly for the sake of appearances. 

The team doesn’t seem to notice, or at least to think it’s a  _ problem. _ Nat has to see what’s going on, she’s simply too attentive to miss it. She isn’t acting worried, so Clint suspects that at least it’s unlikely to cause any serious trouble. At least not yet, because Barnes keeps testing the limits of Clint’s good will.

Hawkeye is a sniper. To most people the archer means a sharp-shooter more than someone capable of patient stakeouts, but he can outwait the most stubborn of targets if he needs to. Except now he’s testing his patience against another world-class sniper and the jury’s still out. He doesn’t go as far as outright avoiding the Soldier, but he does hope he doesn’t have to see him whenever he visits the communal floor. Not for the first time, his hopes are misplaced.

Steve and Barnes are occupying the sofa. It’s Mario Kart on the big screen; Steve must be showing his friend the best parts of the twenty-first century. Good. It’s good, right? Clint did the same for Steve way back when.

He tries to shut down the sense of unfairness. He didn’t teach Steve about video games only for Barnes to enjoy himself– but it’s a stupid thought. Clint shouldn’t make it all about himself. Just because he doesn’t like Clint, Barnes doesn’t need to be miserable. 

Instead of focusing on that, he heads for the fridge, like he intended when he got to the kitchen. Fury’s last summons came at the worst possible time, right before their take-out arrived, and he had to beg Natasha for lasagna leftovers. She sent him a photo of a tupperbox with his name on it, so now he opens the fridge and confidently reaches inside.

The box isn’t there. Disappointment seems to have been a running theme the last few days, and always due to the same culprit. Clint figures he doesn't have to look far to find the reason this time, either. He clocks the evidence easily now that he’s looking for it. Just as expected.

“Hey!” he yells, gesturing at the coffee table where  _ someone _ has left a sad, empty box that once upon a time contained Clint’s lasagna. “That was my dinner!”

Barnes doesn’t even look away from the screen. He’s focused on the game even when Steve startles and looks at Clint.

“Was it? My bad, Barton,” Barnes almost-apologises, but does so flippantly, pushing Steve’s kart off the road and still not even glancing away. Clint grits his teeth.

“It kinda had my name on it, Barnes, I thought they taught you how to read in the thirties,” he mocks. He’s bottled in his frustration long enough.

“I’m sorry, Clint,” Steve rushes an apology, but it does nothing to smooth Clint’s ruffled feathers. Steve’s not the one who did anything wrong. “Buck got hungry and I told him to find something in the fridge and–”

“Yeah,” Clint stops him there. “Whatever, I’ll manage.”

He turns on his heel and ignores Steve’s worried calls from behind him.

He can order pizza. It’s a rush hour and he’ll have to wait for  _ ages _ for delivery – if he’s lucky – but he’ll manage just fine, thank you very much.

Fucking Barnes.

***

It’s a relief to get a few hours of Barnes-free environment for once. The Winter Soldier had his arm upgraded – it’s Tony’s way of  _ trying, _ and from the look of wonder on Barnes’ face when he saw the blueprints, the man more than appreciates it – and he’s sleeping off the surgery. The very invasive nerve surgery that he refused to be unconscious for. A team of physiotherapists is on call for when he wakes up; Clint selfishly wishes it takes him a good while to adjust to the new arm, just so Clint doesn’t have to see him that little bit longer.

Even with Barnes otherwise occupied, the communal floor is far from empty. Since Barnes arrived at the Tower, the team’s been spending more time together. It’s a good development, Clint thinks, even if he doesn’t understand what’s so special about the man's presence.

He fiddles with his pad, waiting for the game to load. He can hear Steve and Tony bickering about SHIELD – that’s their baseline, so it’s not alarming when they raise their voices. Nat’s sitting quietly in the comfiest armchair, buried deep in the files Hill sent her. It’s probably their next mission, or maybe a solo one for her since Clint got no memo. That’s not unusual; he still wonders what it is but knows better than to stick his nose into Nat’s business.

“You sure you don’t want to join? Want to see how it’s done first, eh?” Clint nudges Sam who’s on the couch beside him, and gets an absent-minded swat that misses Clint’s arm by a mile. As the Falcon likes to remind them often, he has an actual job besides being an Avenger. He’s currently replying to all the backlog emails: boring.

Clint refocuses on the screen. First things first; he pulls up the high scores to make sure no one beat him since yesterday. He expects to see ‘HAWK’ in the first place, as usual.

‘J.B.BARNES’ taking the top score is unexpected. It’s jarring. It’s frustrating.

It becomes enraging when he realises that Barnes didn’t beat him to the top fair and square. There’s ‘FALCON’ on the list, hell, there’s even a ‘STEVE’, but all Clint’s scores are missing. There’s not a single one left, even the old ones he beat a long time ago. And, to add insult to injury, Barnes’ score isn’t even higher than Clint’s last win.

“He deleted my scores!” he fumes. “What the fuck, who  _ does _ that?! What the fuck, Barnes! I don’t care that he has a sad past, you don’t do things like–”

“Clint,” Steve interrupts him with a strained voice. Clint does stop there. He’s hoping for an explanation. There must be some, right? Steve wouldn’t defend his best friend if he wasn’t innocent. Right? “Can you lay off? You know Bucky’s not a tech wizard, and I can tell you a crash course on the last few decades is just as confusing as it is thrilling. It takes time to assimilate it all. It must’ve been a mistake and you know it. I’m aware you don’t like Bucky but–”

“ _I _ don’t like–?!” Clint stares incredulously. “What are you talking about? I’m not the one deleting his saves, man!”

“Give him time to adjust, Clint.” Sam looks at him over the screen of his laptop. His voice takes that irritating tone of a therapist that Clint hates. “Soldiers coming back from the war don’t have it easy, and Bucky’s experiences are unique. There’s no clear recovery path for mind control. It’s important that we create an accepting environment for him.”

They’re not, Clint wants to scream. They’re not unique. He’s been there. No one cared  _ then. _

“You can’t delete saves by accident!” he insists instead. “You can’t! There’s at least three separate confirmation pop-ups!”

“Why would he delete them on purpose?” Sam raises his brows – rude – and returns to his boring emails.

“I don’t know! But you can’t– Tony!” He turns around to look at the man. “You know it’s impossible to do it accidentally. He had to do it deliberately!”

“Don’t look at me.” Tony raises his hands, palms forward. “Some supersoldiers destroy their custom-made, indestructible StarkPhones, others might be so helpless with software that the tech just gives in. Besides, I don’t know how to get along with the guy, but I do know we need to make it work. I’m avoiding him for a reason.” Steve looks suddenly upset and Tony quickly realises his misstep. “And that’s my cue to go. Projects to finish, money to spend, business to run, you know how it is.”

He disappears into an elevator that JARVIS helpfully opens for him just in time.

Clint turns to Nat and glares at her expectantly until she yields and looks up from her files with a sigh.

“Look, you don’t get along, we noticed. I don’t know what happened between the two of you,” she says. Her tics are subtle but to Clint it’s clear how much she doesn’t enjoy being out of the loop. She must be expecting him to tell her all about it at some point, and Clint  _ would, _ really, if he had any idea himself. “But the fault rarely lies on just one side and maybe you’ve done something to raise his hackles by accident? You’re not always the most perceptive, Hawkeye.”

She sends him a quick smile before getting back to work: it’s her way to show she’s only teasing.

Clint huffs and sits back on the couch. Every joke has a grain of truth in it, Nat told him once herself. He doesn’t disagree. He’s a mess, he has no brain-to-mouth filter sometimes, and he has a whole overflowing bucket of bad habits. Getting on someone’s nerves is a given when he’s a part of the equation. What he didn’t expect, though, was for the whole team to defend Barnes so adamantly. Is the fault here really Clint’s? What if they’re right? Maybe he shouldn’t blindly trust his own judgement.

He grits his teeth but resolves to try harder next time. He won’t fail his team.

He won’t stand to not be in the high scores either. He has a ‘J.B.BARNES’ to beat.

***

Maybe a week later Clint finds himself lounging in the communal living room, reading an honest-to-god  _ book. _ It’s been ages since he had the time: usually it’s training, missions and the follow-up paperwork, team-building exercises, then training again, and there’s simply not enough time in a day for frivolous things like reading.

It’s not any of Nat’s recommendations. Her tastes go too deep into historical fiction and classics for Clint’s liking. Supposedly, those help her with infiltrating diverse social spheres. Clint’s approach is practically opposite: he’s catching up on the last of A Song of Ice and Fire novel that he hasn’t had the chance to read yet. He needs the pop-culture references to make some of his own undercover personas work.

When the elevator door slides open, he’s skimming through a sex scene, which might be why Barnes makes such a striking impression when he enters the room. He’s slightly sweaty, just enough to make his skin shine temptingly in the evening light, and his self-satisfied smirk is doing things for Clint. Steve’s right on his heels, of course, and while he looks like the pinnacle of human physique, Clint’s immune to him by now. Barnes, on the other hand…

It’s a shame the man inside this attractive body is a dick.

“A run so late in the day? That’s new,” Clint comments with a raised eyebrow.

“A mission.” Natasha slips into the kitchen. She must’ve followed the soldiers in when Clint was... distracted. Clint recognises her post-mission clothes she keeps in the quinjet, so they must’ve changed out of uniforms while still on board. “Nothing builds an appetite like raiding a HYDRA hideout, don’t you agree, boys?”

“I’m  _ starving,_” Barnes admits with a hearty laugh.

“I’m thinking pasta,” Nat decides when she checks the cupboards. “Or takeout. Clint?”

“Nah, I’m not hungry,” he dismisses the offer and sinks into the couch. 

It’s not a lie; he’s not hungry anymore. A mission he doesn’t join isn’t rare. A mission no one tells him about, however, is a first. The whole team should stay informed in case anything unexpected happens, no matter how easy the assignment seems. Did Tony know? Or did he go with them? Was it just Clint who got left behind? And then, where was the hideout, and what was the danger level?

He tries to force his nerves down. What could’ve gone wrong with two supersoldiers on the job? Nothing, he’s sure. The backup would be superfluous. That makes sense, he tells himself, even though his instincts scream at him for not having his friends’ backs.

He gives up on reading. Instead, he kicks his legs up on the couch and lies down, hiding his face under the open book. An attempt at a nap suddenly sounds like a better plan for the evening – and who knows, if he keeps quiet long enough they might spill some details about this hush-hush mission, and maybe that could help ease Clint’s mind.

***

Miscommunication is a real thing that happens because adults sometimes get defensive for no reason and fail to give each other second chances. Clint’s mature enough to acknowledge it, alright? Plus, he woke up in a great mood. Even Barnes showing up in the communal kitchen uninvited isn’t going to ruin that.

“Hey, Barnes,” he says in greeting. He doesn’t turn around to make small talk, though. Breakfast won’t make itself, and Clint’s busy chopping onions. Those vicious bastards have made him cry. He can cut them almost as neatly without looking, but it takes a bit more focus.

He can hear Barnes moving around, but he only looks at him when the onions are all done and he’s wiped his tears on his shirt sleeve. The Soldier is at the sink, washing– wait, is that–?

“Where are my eggs?” Clint asks, even though he has a good idea what happened.

“Oh, sorry, you needed them?” Barnes’ tone is exaggeratedly apologetic as he washes a bowl that not a minute ago contained perfectly mixed eggs Clint prepared beforehand.

“I,” he starts slowly, ”am making scrambled eggs.  _ Eggs  _ are an implied ingredient.”

Barnes just shrugs. “How would I know? I just needed a bowl.”

They have at least a dozen bowls of all sizes in a cupboard. Someone new to the Tower might be unaware of that, but it’s been  _ weeks _ and Clint’s seen Barnes use a few of them himself.

He breathes in through his nose. He has half a mind to grab milk and cereal and be done with it, but he isn’t on board with wasting food like Barnes just did. Clint takes a few more breaths. Then, he snatches a pack of eggs, the chopped onions and a block of butter. Without another word, he heads to his own apartment where no one will interrupt his cooking.

***

Villains think they’re smart when they choose to cause mayhem at night when the public is asleep. As if that would make them harder to catch. As if the Avengers weren’t on call every hour of every day.

Instead, the real result of such plans is that the whole team is  _ pissed _ at whatever the new evil wannabe is. The relative lack of civilians around at night is always fortunate, because the Avengers fight dirty when angered and the public might not be ready for Captain America’s middle-of-the-night attitude.

When they get to the Tower after the villain is contained, the sun’s already up. Clint briefly considers going back to bed, but he’s too pumped up to fall asleep now. Instead, when the elevator opens to the communal floor, he rushes blindly to the coffee machine, determined to get there first. There might be elbows at play, but the cause is greater than Clint’s morning manners.

He embraces the machine after pressing the familiar combination of buttons.

“Rude, Barton,” Tony complains behind his back. Clint doesn’t care. The godly smell is already starting to fill his nostrils. “Where’s the gratitude towards the man who supplies your coffee?”

“Here, Stark. It’s fresh and I can wait.” Oh. Clint didn’t notice Barnes in his tired haze. The Soldier wasn’t sent out with them this time; the man is up of his own volition. Unnatural.

Clint looks back to see what’s going on just in time to see the Soldier pass his own steaming mug to Tony.

“See, Barton? That’s why I like Barnes better.”

Clint scowls at them both but the coffee machine beeps and he’s busy with coffee. 

His face is twisted in a hurt grimace, he’s distantly aware. He’s glad to have a mug to hide behind, because–  _ really? _ Stark likes a man who murdered his parents better than Clint? It’s bullshit, that’s what it is.

Right?

He frowns at his too-soon empty mug. He doesn’t want to believe it, but... it would explain a lot, wouldn’t it?

***

The next time they run into each other, they’re passing each other at the range. Now, Clint has memorised Barnes’ schedule well enough to avoid any unnecessary encounters, especially when he’s in need of the calm only his bow can give him. He smells a ruse as soon as he sees the Soldier seemingly innocently putting his things away late on a Thursday evening, when no one other than Clint bothers to visit the training facilities. 

Clint squares his shoulders, aware that his posture must mirror the tense curves of Barnes’ own shoulders. He hates this; he hates a virtual stranger – no, not a stranger, that’s too neutral a word, an intruder – imposing himself on Clint’s alone time at the range. He doesn’t want to stay alert; he wants to lose himself in the easy rhythm of pull-aim-release. However, at this point he’d rather keel over than let Barnes get the upper hand, so he squares his shoulders and prepares to act like he doesn’t give a shit.

His resolve lasts a solid couple of minutes. It would’ve lasted longer, but then Barnes knocks over a quiver full of trick arrows in a manner that’s just a notch too stiff to come off as accidental. When they fall to the ground with a clatter, the man simply shrugs his shoulders with a disinterested hum, and turns to walk away.

Clint has suffered through all kinds of offensive stunts that Barnes has pulled since he came to the Tower. He can deal with the frosty attitude, he can skip meals, and he can beat the game over and over again, no matter how many times his scores disappear. He’s used to being treated like shit. Admittedly, the team’s insistence that he should suck it up is new, but honestly, that’s his own fault for believing they’d stick up for him– but disrespecting his weapon? Something in him breaks.

Clint grabs Barnes by his shirt and slams him against the wall.

His breath is heavy with rage bursting in his chest, but even that isn’t enough to dull his keen observation skills. A small voice in the back of his mind points out how easily the Winter Soldier let himself be manhandled like this. Then it remarks that Barnes’ expression is so very far from angry and, if Clint is honest with himself, looks very much like relief. He doesn’t want to notice any of it; he wants to be angry, no, he  _ deserves _ to be angry; the way Barnes  _ melts _ under Clint’s furious look, though, is undeniable.

“You–!” Clint pulls him forward sharply and pushes him back again. Barnes moves limply in Clint’s grip, not putting up any fight, and when his head knocks back against the wall, Clint winces and lets go of his shirt. Why is Barnes–? “Ugh!”

He turns on his heel and storms out of the range. Or rather he intends to, but halfway across the room he realises that his arrows are still laying scattered across the floor and no one will pick them up for him.

Set on not sparing Barnes a single look, Clint stomps back towards the weapons rack. He ignores the Soldier’s eyes following him as he kneels down and picks arrows one by one to put them carefully in the correct compartments of the quiver. He’s only missing a boomerang arrow that rolled the furthest away – the irony, it’s the one that’s supposed to  _ come back _ – and he’s about to reach for it when a metal hand beats him to it.

The Barnes that offers an arrow with eyes glued to the floor, his shoulders slumped and tense, looks like a completely different person than the self-assured asshole that has been testing Clint’s patience. It sits wrong with Clint to see him like this, despite the fact that he’s been wishing for weeks for someone to take him down a peg. 

When Clint doesn’t take the arrow straight away, Bucky shoots a quick, nervous glance at Clint. The Soldier swallows heavily and hastily pushes the arrow at him. Clint has to grab it before Barnes accidentally stabs him.

“I’m sorry,” Barnes rushes the words out. Clint’s tempted to ask him to repeat them, because there’s no chance in hell that his tormentor for the last three months actually  _ apologised. _

“Yeah? What on Earth would you be sorry  _ for?” _ he asks in the end, his words dripping bitter sarcasm. He secures the last arrow in the quiver and stands up to hang it on the wall. 

“I…” Barnes’ voice is shaky and even at this angle Clint sees the distress on his face clearly.

He doesn’t owe Barnes a thing. The man’s been nothing but a pain in Clint’s ass since he showed up. Gods, he’s pushing Clint out - taking his place on a team that became Clint’s _everything,_ the place he never had a reason to question until Steve’s best friend just waltzed in like he owned the place. Clint has every right to walk away and not look back. No one would blame him. Hell, no one would ever know.

Clint sighs, hangs the quiver and lowers himself back to the floor.

“You okay?” It sounds just as awkward as he feels, but sue him, he’s never been good at this shit. 

Barnes’ breath hitches. Gods, he must be barely keeping back the tears. “No,” he croaks, and then it’s like the dam’s broken. His voice shakes but he almost spits the words. “How the  _ fuck _ would I be okay?! I’m not, I’m– I’m the opposite of okay. But I can’t say it, can I? ‘Cause if I do, Stevie’s gonna freak out, he’s gonna motherhen me – like I  _ deserve _ that?! I don’t! Fuck. I should tell them to lock me up, I’m no good for any of this. The things I did? And, fuck, they put me in Avengers Tower? They’re insane. But everyone asks, and everyone expects me to be  _ fine– _ ”

“I don’t,” Clint stupidly interrupts. It would be wiser to let Barnes let it all out, but alas. Typically dumb, Barton.

The Soldier pauses, gulps and finally looks at Clint. His eyes are so intense Clint leans away, taken by surprise.

“You don’t,” Barnes says passionately, as if that’s the whole point he’s making. “Out of everyone around me, you’re the only one who understands. How can I be fine if it was all my fault? I don’t even remember all of it and I still feel sick with myself! Why do they pretend I’m safe to be around? Even Stark, he of all people should know better and he still  _ invited me into his home, _ Barton! I killed his  _ parents, _ God, and he  _ forgave me?! _ ”

Clint tilts his head. “Would it help? If he didn’t?”

“I don’t care about ‘help’! He  _ shouldn’t! _ They should just stop pretending. They shouldn’t treat me like it didn’t happen. I don’t deserve that!” Barnes grabs Clint’s sleeve. “You know I don’t. If I can get anyone to see that, it must be you. I thought…” he trails away. It looks to Clint like he’s about to crawl back into his shell but the man takes a long, shaky breath and pushes through. “God, I thought you could treat me more like– like I  _ deserve. _ Not– not like Steve, none of this mollycoddling. But you don’t, not even when I piss you off! I messed it all up again.” Barnes hides his face in his hands.

Clint grimaces to himself. He doesn’t want to know if the other man’s crying. It’s awkward enough as it is, thank you very much. But now he’s kinda emotionally invested in the situation and can’t just leave the man on his own, not in this state, can he? 

He sighs. “Come on up, soldier. The range is for quality time, not talking bullshit.” Clint stands up, but Barnes doesn’t. He just looks up at him and, thank gods, he isn’t crying, so Clint doesn’t feel bad when he nudges him with his foot. “Up, soldier,” he insists. “You’re in a bad place and I’m no therapist. I can’t make you feel better but maybe a movie will. Up!”

***

They move to the couch on the communal floor, because a stroke of good will or no, Clint isn’t letting Barnes into his own living space just yet. The Soldier is adamant that he’s warm enough and doesn’t need blankets but Clint recognises the look in his eyes as he says so. It’s too much like looking in a mirror, so he takes the fluffiest of the blankets and refuses to take Barnes’ words at a face value.

“You deserve nice things,” he repeats the words Nat has pretty much ingrained into his soul by now. In a sterner voice, he orders, “Wrap yourself in the blanket.”

Barnes looks up at him with wide eyes and gapes, but after a second he reaches for the blue-ish blanket with slightly shaking hands and does as ordered, not losing eye contact with Clint the whole time.

Huh.

With a mental shrug, Clint takes his favourite, purple blanket for himself and sits down on the couch.

“Anything in particular you wanna watch?”

Barnes startles, then shrugs and shakes his head with the same wide-eyed expression. He looks inappropriately adorable for a world-class assassin, but Clint knows better than to huff a laugh. The moment feels too fragile to ruin it with ill-timed amusement.

Humming to himself, Clint puts on Dog Cops. Might as well show Barnes the pinnacle of modern animation. The man doesn’t protest. In fact, he doesn’t make any sound at all, and if his eyes weren’t intently following the action on the screen, Clint would’ve thought he spaced out. But no, he watches the show with a single-minded focus even as the emotional exhaustion catches up to him.

Clint knows the exact moment his eyelids droop; he’s been paying more mind to the man beside him than the episode he loves but knows by heart. Still, he doesn’t say a thing when Barnes shakes his head sharply, blinks a few times and gets back to watching the screen. Clint knows that the supersoldiers don’t need as much sleep as he himself, a mere human, does, but an outburst like that is bound to take its toll on anyone.

Only after Barnes just barely keeps his head from slumping forward for the third time, Clint sighs.

“Oh, come on,” he mutters, freeing one arm from under his blanket. He pulls Barnes towards himself until the man topples to the side, landing with his head in Clint’s lap with a surprised gasp. “Easy, you’re doing fine,” he adds when the Soldier tries to scramble upwards, and the effect is immediate. Barnes stills and, with a single deep breath, lets himself relax.

Huh. What do you know?

It’s unnerving for the first few minutes. He has a dozing-off Barnes in his lap. The same Barnes that he was about to punch just a couple of hours ago. The fuck is happening? He looks down at the man and absentmindedly fixes the blanket to better tuck him in. He can only see the side of Barnes’ face – in the soft light of the screen, wrapped in a fluffy blue comforter, the man looks almost... soft? It’s completely at odds with his usual appearance, and the dissonance is hard to overcome.

Then the season finale starts playing, one of Clint’s favourite episodes ever, and with a shrug he decides he’s enjoying it no matter what. He relaxes against the cushions and grins happily when Sergeant Whiskers, still deep undercover, shows up on the screen.

“Clint?” Steve’s quiet voice behind him takes Clint by surprise a few episodes later. He doesn’t jump only because Barnes is still weighing him down. “Have you seen Bucky?”

Clint thought Barnes was asleep, but he feels him tense up the moment Steve speaks. He’s hidden from view by the back of the couch and it’s clear that he doesn’t want to face his best friend’s concern just now. Clint gets it, that urge to hide away, and moves his thumb soothingly over Barnes’ metal arm where his hand landed at some point during their Dog Cops marathon.

“No, why?” he says, looking at Steve over the back of the couch, his face perfectly bland. He’s good at keeping secrets. It’s a skill he honed to perfection and even Nat can’t always tell he’s hiding something – though it might just be the amount of things he bottles up making it hard to see through him. Point is, Cap believes him without question and frowns, but then shakes his head.

“It’s nothing. I’ll find him in the morning.”

Clint hums. “I’m sure he’ll turn up for his morning coffee, Cap.” 

He sees Steve’s lip quirk up.

“That he will,” Steve agrees easily. He gestures at the screen. “Enjoy your marathon?”

“Always,” Clint replies with a solemn nod that he doesn’t even have to fake. “Night, Steve.” He flicks a sloppy salute when the supersoldier says his goodbye but doesn’t fully turn away until the elevator door closes.

“Thank you.” It’s quiet – so quiet that Clint’s old hearing aids wouldn’t have picked it up over the sounds of the show. Barnes doesn’t shift in Clint’s lap, not even to look up at him.

“Don’t mention it,” Clint says, and he hopes Barnes understands he means it. Whatever is happening tonight, it’s awkward. He doesn’t want to think about it ever again.

***

He can’t stop thinking about it. It’s his first thought when he wakes up the next day, and then it just never leaves.

Barnes’ outburst was completely unexpected, and Clint would think that he’s the last person that should be its witness, except he’s realised that for some bizarre reason he’s the only one who gets to see behind the mask of  _ Bucky, Steve’s perfect friend. _

It’s confusing as fuck, and for the first few hours of the day Clint tries to untangle the mess of Barnes’ reasoning. Last night he seemed to be looking for someone to  _ understand_. Has he read Clint’s file? Of course he has; if you’re feeling paranoid, you read up on the people around you – no matter how guilty that makes you feel. Clint  _ knows,  _ he’s done that too. But Barnes had been looking for someone to  _ condemn _ him, and Clint– Clint understands that feeling. He remembers the dark days of blaming himself for the deaths of his fellow agents, of refusing to accept excuses or forgiveness. He’s over it now, though... mostly. Sometimes, when a random bout of self-hatred gets too much, when he gets a bit too reckless during missions, he needs Nat to punch some sense into his broken brain.

(He doesn’t dare to think what will happen once he’s no longer a part of the team, when Nat won’t be there for him anymore. He’ll figure something out, like he always does.)

He can sympathise with the Winter Soldier – but that can’t be the whole reason Barnes treats him differently than the rest of the Avengers. If that were the case, Barnes would seek out Clint’s company, when in fact he’s been doing the opposite. It’s not just the subtly passive-aggressive act, the harassing, the hiding behind Steve’s well-meant but weak excuses for Barnes’ behaviour. Clint’s the only one who doesn’t get the charming treatment, nor the wide smiles that, he now realises, have to be at least half-faked. Clint’s the only one for whom Barnes doesn’t make an effort.

He finally figures it out in an elevator on his way down to the gym. It’s so ridiculous that it took him this long that he actually facepalms – at least no one other than JARVIS can see him, and JARVIS is the best bro; the AI never mocks him.

Barnes needs to let it all out. If Clint is on his way out, he’s easily the safest choice for an audience. No matter how badly they crash against each other, it won’t be an issue for much longer. It won’t ruin the Avengers’ dynamics. It’s sensible. It’s a good plan, Clint can appreciate that. It confirms his earlier suspicions, too, so when he meets Natasha down in the gym, he feels understandably bitter. Nat looks at him with a worried frown, but he shakes his head and she doesn’t ask. They both have things they don’t want to talk about.

And if there’s a growing number of secrets Clint keeps from her, it’s fine. They spar; the adrenaline and the bruises help him not to think about the guilt for a while.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint shoves Barnes against the wall. Barnes lets him. 
> 
> “We’re not doing this dance anymore, Barnes,” Clint growls. Their foreheads are almost touching and from up close it’s easy to see confusion in the man’s eyes. He should tell Barnes to stay away from him, he really should, but what he finds himself saying instead is, “If you want something from me, you gotta use your words.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags have changed. Please mind the tags!  
> This is the first long fic that I'm posting on ao3, and the first one I wrote that has any of the darker tropes in it. It's thrilling, but I wasn't aware just how far things went in this fic until kocuria pointed it out to me, and oh boy, the tags needed a serious update!  
> I _promise_ everything ends well, they care for each other – they're just oblivious idiots. This is angst with a happy ending, that tag hasn't changed.
> 
> I hope you all, and Perry in particular, enjoy what the dumbass duo got themselves into this time.
> 
> (If you haven't yet, check out the gorgeous banner at the beginning of the first chapter that [kocuria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kocuria/pseuds/kocuria-visuals) made for this fic!)

He takes a long shower after training. He turns the temperature up; it’s an unnecessary luxury, but cold water would soothe the bruises and Clint wants to keep them as a reminder. He’s unsure what they’re supposed to remind him of, but they still feel right, somehow.

What he needs now is coffee. There's nothing more grounding than a sparring session with Natasha, but she always leaves him absolutely exhausted. He has coffee in his own apartment and that’s usually more than enough for Clint’s unrefined tastes. 

…On the other hand, Tony stocks the communal areas with the most extravagant blends, and Clint’s mood is high enough that he dares venture to the Avengers’ kitchen.

Surprisingly, there’s no one hanging around there. Clint doesn’t complain. He starts the coffee machine and stretches, feeling the pleasant burn of sore muscles. The post-training exhaustion is incredibly satisfying, and everything tastes better when it’s earned.

The coffee’s ready in a short minute. Contrary to popular belief, more than half of their team is powered not by the serum, arc reactors nor godly weapons, but by coffee – and the machine gets fresh upgrades whenever Stark gets frustrated with the already almost non-existent wait time for a fresh batch. 

He doesn’t notice the Winter Soldier slink into the kitchen until he’s standing on the other side of the coffee machine with a fake smirk. Clint holds back a frustrated groan. He’s  _ so  _ not here for any of this.

Barnes reaches to grab Clint’s mug but Clint can see it coming. He snatches Barnes’ hand before it can touch his coffee, but the man still looks smug.

With a sudden flare of anger, he decides he’s had enough. So what if he saw the Winter Soldier’s breakdown? So what if he talked him down, if they spent the evening together? So what if Barnes decided he’s safe to unload his trauma on? If anything, Clint deserves a break from the constant taunting, not another repeat of this bullshit. There’s only so much he’s willing to put up with, and he’s already being replaced by the better model. He might be the weak link, fine, but he’s done with being treated like a pushover.

In an almost-perfect reenactment of their encounter the previous day, Clint shoves Barnes against the wall. 

Barnes lets him. Again.

“We’re not doing this dance anymore, Barnes,” Clint growls. Their foreheads are almost touching and from up close it’s easy to see confusion in the man’s eyes. He should tell Barnes to stay away from him, he really should, but what he finds himself saying instead is, “If you want something from me, you gotta use your words.”

Barnes opens his mouth but nothing comes out, even when he gulps and tries again. Clint gives him another moment's chance, but finally pushes away from him with another growl. He grabs his coffee and storms out of the room.

***

It’s surprising how often they run into each other all of a sudden. Clint’s learned Barnes’ habits in his attempt to minimize the frequency of their encounters, but it seems that the evening of their Dog Cops marathon has made the man less predictable than Stark’s sleeping schedule. Clint wasn’t aware that was even  _ possible. _

It’s comforting, though, that Clint’s not the only one unmoored by the recent change in the dynamics between them.

Over the next two days there are a few occasions when they see each other in a group setting. Barnes ignores him completely then, which is way better than his usual passive-aggression. Barnes’ reactions when they pass each other in the corridors without company are something else, though. Each time it happens, the Winter Soldier freezes, wide-eyed and suddenly tongue-tied.

“I–” he starts on one occasion, but the words seem to escape him right after and he practically runs back in the direction he came from.

It’s also comforting that Clint isn’t the only one who doesn’t know what he wants.

***

The precarious balance shifts again on the fourth day after the Dog Cops marathon. Clint’s stubbornly using the show as a key phrase for whatever happened that night. He keeps hoping it would help distance himself from the emotional mess. It doesn’t, not really.

When Clint walks into the communal kitchen in the morning, the whole team is already at the table, chatting too lively for the early hour. It’s morning for real; Clint’s awake at 8am on Monday. He hates it. Steve’s mandatory group training sessions are the one thing Clint won’t miss when he transfers back to SHIELD.

The day’s awful all on its own so far; even the cup of coffee he drank before getting out of his apartment didn’t help. 

And now, Barnes is sitting in Clint’s spot at the kitchen table.

When the Soldier notices Clint’s glare, he doesn’t look away. He’s still participating in whatever conversation Steve and Sam are having, chiming in in all the appropriate moments, but his eyes are on Clint. He wears his self-assured smile but it feels different, in a way. Clint thinks Barnes looks defiant but also almost… hopeful?

He raises his eyebrows. “That’s my spot,” he says from where he’s standing by the kitchen door. The conversations pause for a moment, then resume just as quickly. Steve looks nervously back and forth between Clint and Bucky, probably judging whether he should intervene, always ready at a moment’s notice. Barnes, though… Barnes’ expression doesn’t change a bit. Clint makes sure to keep his voice low and even. “Take another seat, Barnes.”

The man springs to his feet without a word of complaint and sits down in the empty chair next to Sam.

Clint huffs softly and goes to grab a plate for himself. He wonders if Bucky has any idea what his behaviour looks like.

***

Barnes finds him when he’s getting ready for some quality one on one time with his bow. The team practice is great for working on strategies and combining their skills, but Clint still needs time at the range to perfect the trick shots and keep in shape. He doesn’t have the advantage of a serum to do it for him, or any reactor-powered strength, but he still has to try and match the team’s skill level. All the odds are stacked against him; maybe it’s for the best if they have Barnes instead.

He’s putting on his arm guard, facing the targets, when Barnes decides to break his silence. It’s a small mercy Clint’s not handling an explosive arrow because he would’ve dropped it and wouldn’t that be fun?

“I want you to hurt me.”

Clint’s glad that Barnes is behind him and can’t see the twitch of his face. It’s probably planned, since this way Clint can’t see the expression on the Soldier’s face either. Judging by the sound of his voice, he’s determined, but Clint would bet his bow that it’s just the tip of the iceberg.

He shifts on his feet to look sideways at Barnes, measures him with a glare, head to toe, and raises a sardonic brow. “I don’t think so.”

Barnes turns his eyes away the moment Clint looks at him, but the rejection makes him startle and forget his nervousness.

“But I–! You know I–! But you told me to–!” he objects, indignant. He still has trouble voicing his thoughts. Clint feels for him; he hasn’t been in the  _ exact  _ same place but he can still relate to the confusion and the inability to choke out what he needs. Barnes’ whole frame slumps when he looks at the ground and quietly says, “I need it.”

“So you say. I don’t agree,” Clint answers him, stern but not unsympathetic. “I’m going to get my range time now. Go, sit down and wait until I’m finished.” He points at a bench by the weapon rack. “Then we can talk about what you think you need.”

It’s actually quite fortunate that Barnes cornered him at a range, because Clint does some of his best thinking to the soothing rhythm of archery. Pull. Aim. Release. Repeat.

The Soldier looks so happy,  _ too _ happy to follow Clint’s direction. If Clint wasn’t sure before, he is now.

He didn’t live a sheltered life, neither at the circus nor after he left, not after he joined SHIELD either. He knows some people crave giving up control. He hears that it can give you a rush if done right, that letting go of the reins can be both a thrill and a relief. He knows some people are the opposite, getting their fill of pleasure from bossing others around, and that it doesn’t have to be sexual.

All the evidence suggests that, whether he’s aware of it or not, Barnes is one of those people, in need of someone who’ll tell him what to do. Ground him. Maybe rough him up a bit in the process. Desperate, Barnes took Clint’s impudent reactions to his antics as a sign of  _ something _ and now he’s at the end of his rope, pinning his hopes on Clint to pull him up.

Pull. Aim. Breathe out. Release.

Clint knows all that in  _ theory_. He’s never been into any of it himself, and the few times a mission required him to pretend, he didn’t enjoy a second of it.

Pull. Aim.

Clint doesn’t even  _ like _ the guy. He’s attractive, yeah, but he’s also been treating Clint like shit for weeks. A few days of respite shouldn’t magically evaporate the resentment.

Release. Grab an arrow–

He’s too deep in his thoughts to realise he’s out of arrows. A mistake like that could cost him dearly, out in the field, but right now the concern is dulled by more pressing issues. Absent-mindedly, he touches a panel that sends the target zooming towards him. He stares at a moving board with unseeing eyes.

Because, despite all that, he’s not exactly opposed to the idea. He didn’t  _ despise _ it when Barnes let himself be pushed around. It was very strange to have him so pliant, but it wasn’t a  _ bad _ thing. And he could get used to Barnes doing what he’s told for a change.

He pulls the arrows out of the target mechanically, slides them back into the quiver and touches the panel again to reset the distance. The target billows as it moves away but the first shots effortlessly form a perfect circle around the bullseye before it reaches the intended distance.

Is it something Clint could actually enjoy? The idea gives him shivers, but he’s too mixed up to make any sense of it. It’s his super weapon as a spy, he thinks wryly: if he can’t figure out what he feels himself, his marks won’t see through him either. That doesn’t help him any now, though. 

Yeah, he’s  _ physically _ attracted to Barnes, but it’s unlikely that things would turn sexual between them. That’s not what Barnes needs from Clint. 

Is he willing to make an effort for the man he’s resented for so long?

Pull. Aim. Release.

Counterpoint: does it even matter? It’s not like his life’s been a streak of pleasantries and happy coincidences. Bucky needs someone he can trust to take care of him, and for some reason he won’t let that be Steve. The team needs Bucky more than they need Clint. It’s not rocket science, the answer is obvious. Clint is more than willing to make an effort _ for the team. _

Suddenly he realizes his mind is made up. He lets the familiar repetitive motion push away any leftover unease. What’s the point of second-guessing if he’s sure of what he needs to do?

For the last time, he calls forward the target, collects his arrows and takes off the arm guard. When he turns to the weapons’ rack, he’s half expecting Barnes to be– not  _ gone _ , that would be surprising, all things considered, but at least dozing off. Instead, the Winter Soldier watches him with absolute and undivided attention. Clint’s both flattered and, suddenly, self-conscious. He hides it as best he can, putting his weapons away with a purposefully indifferent expression.

“You’re good.” Barnes sounds honest.

“I know,” Clint agrees easily. He wouldn’t be an Avenger if it wasn’t true. He might concede that Barnes is objectively a better fit, but he still knows his own worth.

When the bow and quiver are secure, Clint takes a step to stand in front of Barnes. Thank goodness, this conversation won’t be about Clint’s own feelings – he  _ hates _ those – but he braces for awkwardness anyway.

“I’m not punishing you for what Hydra did,” he starts on a high note. He realises it was a bad choice to lead with when Barnes tenses and almost visibly shuts down. Clint grimaces and pushes forward. “It feels like your fault, I know. It  _ isn’t,” _ he claims with as much conviction as he can muster. It’s hard to say if he’s trying to convince Barnes or himself, but gods, he  _ needs _ it to be the truth – so he repeats it, as if saying it enough times will make it real. “It really isn’t. And if I ever… hurt you, it’s not because I’m punishing you for that.”

Bucky looks up at him with renewed hope. It’s almost sickening how excited he is at the prospect of being hurt.

“Will you do it?” He’s smiling in relief.

Clint doesn’t answer right away. He knows his answer, but Barnes’ voice is nearly shaking with hopeful disbelief. Clint takes a moment to take in this version of Bucky Barnes, so open and vulnerable.

“If I decide it’s what you need,” he admits finally. “I don’t think it is, right now.”

“I–” The confusion pushes the Soldier back to his inarticulate state. He frowns and looks up at Clint. “No?”

He seems utterly lost and he’s looking at  _ Clint  _ for guidance. Fuck.

Clint sighs in disbelief and sits down on the floor. He isn’t the reliable party in  _ any _ kind of situation. Nat wouldn’t believe him if she heard. (She won’t. It’s yet another thing to keep away from her.  _ This is fine, it’s all fine,  _ he tries to convince himself.)

“I need you to tell me what you want from me, Barnes,” he says, his tone serious.

The man opens his mouth, then swallows, but he doesn’t seem to be able to form any words. He looks even more panicked than he did a moment ago. When he lets out an honest to god whimper, Clint relents.

“Close your eyes,” he orders. Barnes glances at him anxiously, but does as told without a sound. Clint puts his hand on his calf to ground him. Absentmindedly, he notes how well-defined the muscles are, even through the tactical pants.

Barnes still looks nervous, but his breathing slows down almost immediately.

“I need you to say it, because this,” Clint repeats and gestures with his hand before he realises Barnes can’t see it. “This thing you’re asking for? Can’t happen if you don’t verbalize it first.”

Barnes inhales sharply – in anticipation or fear, Clint can’t tell.

“Everyone’s walking on eggshells around me,” he breathes. “Like nothing that happened was real. Stevie’s over the moon, I know, and I’m happy to have him back, too, but…” Barnes trails off. Clint moves his thumb over his leg in comfort, but lets him take the time he needs. “It feels like I’m dreaming, it’s too– too  _ perfect. _ I’m not the guy they take me for, and they– I just want to feel real!” he bursts out. His eyes fly open and suddenly he’s staring Clint in the eye. It’s more intense than Clint was ready for, but when he startles and takes his hand back, the Soldier whimpers again and shuts his eyes, resigned.

With a steadying breath, Clint clasps his hand more firmly around Barnes’ calf. The man leans into the touch with a quiet sigh. 

“And what can I do to help you get there?” Clint keeps his voice soft, cautious. The answer, whatever it is, is critical.

“I don’t… know. I want… whatever you’re doing?” Barnes pauses. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s helping. It’s… It’s like you’re anchoring me.”

He doesn’t say anything more. He just squeezes his shut eyes as if expecting a backlash. There’s, unsurprisingly, a lot of issues hidden under the cocky shell of Bucky’s charming persona. It’s a wonder no one else questions how well-put-together the man acts, considering what he’s been through.

“Gods, Barnes, please tell me you talk with your therapist about this shit,” is the first thing that leaves Clint’s mouth. Barnes bites his lip and doesn’t answer. Fuck. “I can be your anchor, Barnes; I can try. But I can’t be your only outlet. You need someone to talk this through. I  _ know _ Steve the star-spangled mother-hen is not an option, but gods, I’m the literal worst at this and  _ everyone _ and their dog knows it. You need to talk to  _ someone. _ I mean it. Or I’m out.”

Barnes swallows, and Clint’s almost certain he’s going to bail out. But he’s not going back on this. If Barnes doesn’t do that, nothing Clint tries will actually help him. And that’s not good enough. 

_ For the team, _ he reminds himself.

“If I do that,” Barnes says slowly, opening his eyes, and he’s considering it; fuck, that’s a relief. “Will you call me Bucky?”

Clint quirks an eyebrow. That’s not the bargain he expected. 

He huffs. “Sure. Bucky. We can do that.”

***

They find their new balance easily. After their rocky start and literal  _ months  _ of animosity, Clint is surprised to discover he actually  _ enjoys _ Bucky’s company. He’s not the same suave Barnes that hangs around with everyone else: the version Clint gets is snarky, cheeky and always challenging– but also compliant with no objection. It’s a bewildering mix – but, unexpectedly, a thrilling one.

They have rules, of course. Therapy was the first condition, but they still need other rules and boundaries. No more passive-aggressive bullying, please and thank you. Whatever it is they do stays in their rooms. They communicate, and the honesty Clint demands from Bucky goes both ways.

Bucky comes to Clint whenever the future gets too unreal. It happens sporadically at first – probably because they still feel awkward around each other, not because he doesn’t need it. Every time Bucky finally knocks on Clint’s door, he looks ragged and his smile is stretched too thin, as if he’s barely holding on and comes over as a last resort.

Clint think’s it’s almost silly that it needs to be a whole  _ thing. _ They don’t do much. Sometimes it’s watching stupid action flicks and complaining about the inaccuracies. Other times Clint gives Bucky a book to read, or has him make dinner – the man’s cooking skills are a pleasant surprise. The activity doesn’t seem to matter as much as  _ Clint _ being the one who makes the decision. It sounds improbable even to Clint’s own ears – that these little scraps can actually be helping.

But it does help, somehow. Bucky leaves Clint’s apartment with less tension in his shoulders, a smile on his lips and an earnest ‘thank you’ for Clint. It’s insane.

Of course, Hawkeye still has his duties. There are times he’s unavailable. Bucky doesn’t complain about Clint going on missions, quite the opposite in fact. He’s respectful and even gives Clint a couple of days rest after he gets back, even at the cost of being completely exhausted when he finally shows up. It’s–

Alright, if Clint has to be honest with himself, it’s frustrating. He comes home from the mission, sometimes a little banged-up, sometimes not, but the distance is never what he needs to cheer him up. He has Nat, sure, but she’s like a cat; she comes and goes. He can never predict when she’ll feel like socializing. He wishes Barnes would stop being so fucking proper and just  _ hang out _ with him instead.

Hawkeye’s next mission goes relatively well, says Clint’s report. Sadly, Steve’s doesn’t corroborate that opinion. Clint got ambushed, took a few hits, but that’s just life, right? And okay, the bandaged head doesn’t look like ‘nothing’, and the arm in a sling makes people doubt him when he assures them he’s ‘fine’, but it’s not  _ that _ bad. The doctors worry too much, but Steve agrees with them and grounds him at the Tower. 

Rude.

When Bucky comes to visit, two days after the mission, he looks restless and eager to barge right in, but then he sees Clint’s bandages and takes an unsure step back.

“I should… I’ll come back later?” he offers, uncertain.

“No, you won’t.” Clint doesn’t realise how the words sound until he says them out loud and Bucky visibly flinches. “Aww, words, no! Don’t leave, Bucky, wait!” he calls out before the man can retreat all the way back to the elevator. “Come inside and save me from trying to cook with one good hand.” He pouts theatrically for good measure.

Bucky huffs and shakes his head, and most importantly: doesn’t go away. “You were going to order pizza, weren’t you?” 

He knows Clint too well.

“Was I?” Clint shoots him a smug smile. “Guess we’ll never know now.”

Bucky finally comes inside. Clint sighs a silent breath of relief, picking up Bucky’s scent as the man passes him. It’s ridiculous how much Clint missed it. How much he missed  _ Bucky  _ in his space. He wasn’t supposed to grow  _ attached! _ It’s not even a real, proper friendship; it’s an arrangement. Barnes doesn’t feel the same and Clint’s gonna end up hurting when this inevitably ends. He knows that, but it doesn’t keep his dumb heart away from mushy feelings in any way.

***

Every agent has their nightmares. It’s a fact. You can’t work in the field and never get into something bad enough to leave scars, and not just the ones on your skin. Sometimes the trauma is too much and people never return to active duty. Sometimes agents are too stubborn to make what their therapists claim is the sensible choice and quit, and sometimes they even get called heroes for it.

They aren’t unbreakable, though. They may be a picture of perfect focus and unmatched proficiency on a mission, but when the adrenaline fades, they get painfully reminded of their frail reality.

Clint stays home for this one. He was included when the Avengers outlined the strategy, but Cap isn’t a fan of testing in-fight how well-healed the injuries are, so Clint’s still grounded. It’s a fairly big operation: an active HYDRA base in Mexico. It took weeks of careful diplomacy to make the mission on foreign soil possible, and, by some miracle, HYDRA didn’t pick up their scent. They have the advantage. It’s comforting news, but Clint wishes he could do more for the team.

He’s distracting himself by tinkering with his trick arrows when, with a startling knock that comes just a fraction of a second before the door flings open, Bucky charges into his apartment.

Clint’s seen him in various moods, but not like this. He’s still in his mission outfit, for starters, and fuck, has he come here straight from the quinjet? He seems to have stripped and left his weapons somewhere on the way at least, but there’s something in his hair that looks – and smells – like blood. He has a cut on his cheek and another wound on his neck; whatever caused it got through the thick layer of armour. But that’s not what makes Clint’s worry spike.

Bucky’s eyes are unfocused, his whole body’s shaking, his breaths sharp and uneven. If not for the metal arm, no one would recognise the Winter Soldier in this man shattering in silent panic in Clint’s entryway.

“What happened?” Clint asks sharply, dropping the arrow he’s been working on to the coffee table. Has anyone–? No, that can’t be, it  _ can’t, _ he chants in his head, holding his breath. But then Bucky shakes his head firmly, grimacing in frustration, not in despair or fear. Clint breathes out. He still asks, “Is everyone alright?”

“Y-yes,” Bucky manages with a hasty nod, but he’s panting heavily and doesn’t seem to be able to articulate anything more. His confirmation, however, is enough. Clint sags in relief.

“Come on in, Bucky,” Clint coaxes him further inside. “Sit down. I’ll get you a glass of water and order something to eat, and you’ll wait for me on the couch, yeah?”

Bucky nods weakly and moves towards the couch, but Clint realises in that moment, even before Bucky does, that it’s not gonna cut it. Not this time.

He watches the man walk shakily past him and drop to the couch, and thinks quickly. He’s known from the beginning that it wouldn't be just making decisions for Bucky. Not if things got worse, and a hard mission like this was likely to leave a mark. Clint’s expected it. He’s just not sure if the decision he’s about to make is a good one.

It takes maybe two seconds before bouncing a knee isn’t enough for Bucky to manage his anxiety. He springs back up to his feet.

“I– I can’t, Clint. I–” Bucky takes a few steps away, then comes back near Clint, raking his hands through his hair feverishly. His exhaustion is palpable, but he’s clearly too agitated to unwind. “I’m sorry. It’s–”

“It’s  _ alright,” _ Clint interrupts him. He closes the distance between them and puts his arms on Bucky’s shoulders. He hopes the look he gives him is as soft as he intends. “I know, sweetheart.”

It’s like the fact that someone  _ understands _ is enough to break the dam. Just like that, Bucky’s crying. There’s no shame in him, no urge to hide; he’s standing in the middle of Clint’s living room and letting it all out.

Clint rubs one hand over Bucky’s shoulder and lets it happen. His other hand travels further up to inspect the neck wound. There’s a lot of blood on the armour around it, but the injury’s already healing. Good. He moves to the scrape on Bucky’s cheek next. In disbelieving awe, he swipes his thumb over it. It’s almost gone, the serum dealing with it in a manner of hours. Tears smudge the blood across Bucky’s cheek a little, which prompts Clint to finally take a proper look at the man.

He’s  _ beautiful _ like this.

It’s breathtaking, and if Clint wasn’t focused so hard on projecting calm-and-collected for Bucky’s sake, he wouldn’t be able to hide it. It makes his next words all the more loaded to his ears, even if Bucky remains unaware, teetering on the edge of subspace.

“Kneel, Bucky,” he says gently. Bucky’s eyes flit up to meet Clint’s, silently asking if he means it. He repeats more firmly, “Kneel for me, sweetheart.”

Bucky does.

Having him at his feet, looking up at Clint with tears still on his cheeks and unwavering trust in his eyes... It’s too much, makes it too hard to keep the pretense that Clint’s completely unaffected. His nerves spike; he’s not sure if he can do it– but he knows he can’t back off now. He doesn’t  _ want _ to back off. He gulps.

“Wait here,” he manages. His voice sounds almost unfamiliar; it’s low and gruff, and Clint needs to swallow again before he can assure the suddenly alarmed Bucky, “I’m not leaving you here alone, I promise.”

When he flees to the kitchen, he needs a few deep, steadying breaths to actually remember the reason – the excuse – he came there in the first place. He fills a bowl with warm water and finds a fresh towel.

“JARVIS? Is the team okay?” he asks quietly. Normally he wouldn’t think to question Bucky’s word, but with the man in such a state Clint feels the need to confirm it.

“The other Avengers are uninjured, Agent Barton,” JARVIS replies soothingly, and Clint lets out a long sigh of relief. The quiet click lets Clint know that the AI, prompted to life by the sound of his name, has again respectfully pulled out of the apartment’s audio feeds.

When he walks back, he’s not surprised that the brief respite did nothing to calm his want. The sight is enough to make heat crawl under his skin, like a tiny, tenacious creature trying to claw its way out.

Bucky’s still on the floor, kneeling in the exact spot where Clint left him. His eyes follow Clint anxiously when he steps closer. Leaving him was a bad, bad idea, Clint realises when he notices how Bucky’s arms tremble, his hands clasped together almost desperately. Focused on his own panic, he forgot to consider how it would impact Bucky.  _ Fuck. _ He’s not repeating that mistake. 

“Come here.” He gently leads Bucky to knee-walk to the end of the couch and lean on Clint once he sits down. “Good,” he says simply when he’s happy with the result, and Bucky relaxes under the praise. Clint notes that little fact for the future, in the part of his brain not currently buzzing with undeciphered emotions that he sets aside for now. It’s not about him.

He cleans Bucky’s wounds and hair of blood. It’s a slow, patient work, but when he’s done, Bucky’s no longer shaking. His eyes are closed, his breaths even and steady. It’s almost as if he fell asleep, but no. His eyes flutter open briefly at the sound the bowl makes when Clint sets it on the coffee table – cleaning it up can wait. If Bucky got anxious before, leaving him alone this deep in subspace would be downright cruel. Causing him any pain is the last thing Clint wants. He’s in it to help in any way he can.

He looks down on the man with a small smile. Bucky seems… comfortable. He hasn’t moved an inch since Clint nudged him into this position, not troubled in the slightest by the grimy mission gear he’s wearing. He’s still kneeling at Clint’s feet – beautiful – with flesh arm wrapped loosely around the archer’s leg and the metal one resting on his own knee. Clint hasn’t seen him so peaceful and relaxed in… no, he corrects himself; he has never seen Bucky so unguarded, so  _ vulnerable  _ before. 

It’s something else, something brand new and amazing and precious. There’s pride spreading in Clint’s chest at the thought that  _ he  _ is the reason Bucky feels safe. Suddenly he doesn’t want the moment to end. Reaching to the other side of the couch, behind the cushion, he fishes out a book Bucky was reading the last time he visited, settles back against the pillows and finds a bookmarked page. He starts reading out loud.

When Bucky leans on Clint’s thigh with a content hum and lets him thread his fingers through the messy tangles, Clint realises he feels safe, too.

***

“Hey, Clint!” Steve catches him in the gym right after his training. It was a satisfying workout, which always puts Clint in a good mood, so he answers with an easy smile.

“Steve, hey, man, what’s up?”

“You’ve been spending more time with Bucky these past few weeks,” Steve says brightly.

Oh, boy, way to catch Clint off-guard. Steve’s not angry about it, isn’t he? He wouldn’t be smiling if he was. Or is it a trap? Fuck, was the whole thing with Barnes an intricate setup he fell for? Gods, he  _ is _ stupid like that.

He keeps his face in check, though; he’s not a spy for nothing. He tilts his head in cautious inquiry. “Do you… have a problem with that?”

“No!” Steve denies quickly. “Oh, God, no, that’s not what I mean! Bucky’s mentioned a few times that he enjoys your company–” Oh? “–and he’s been… lighter? I know he acts like nothing bothers him but he wasn’t really– he’s happier now, you know?”

Clint nods slowly. He can’t help but wonder exactly how much Steve noticed about Bucky’s feelings about this too-perfect future – all without Bucky ever realising he wasn’t hiding it well enough to fool his best friend.

“He takes his therapy more seriously now, and I know it’s helping,” Steve carries on. “But– I guess I want to say I’m glad you’re friends now. I hoped you two would get along, and it means a lot that Bucky has a friend in you.”

“Thanks, Cap.” Clint's smile is more awkward now. It almost feels like a compliment. Clint’s not used to those.

Steve nods happily and, fortunately, leaves Clint alone in favour of heading for the reinforced punching bags on the other side of the room.

Clint unwraps his hands, thinking about the time he’s spent with Bucky: how compliant the Soldier is when Clint orders him around, how he comes to his apartment in need of someone to take over. But he also thinks about how familiar their banter’s grown, how happy Clint was when he finally convinced Bucky to stop giving him space after missions, simply because he missed having him over.

Friends, Steve said. Huh. Is  _ that _ what they are?

***

It’s well past midnight and Clint isn’t sleeping. It’s not even because he’s too restless or anxious to sleep, this time. Something is telling him that there’s something he should be doing now, so he’s running through the mission plans for tomorrow in his head, looking for weak spots and double-checking their strategy.

He’s not fooling himself and claiming that he has a sixth sense about these things; he doesn’t. All it is, is his brain liking to torment him with a sense of dread for no reason. Sometimes his instincts are right and something does go wrong, but that’s just how probability works. Most of the time, though, he’s just lying awake at night for no reason.

Today, he can’t find anything wrong with their strategy. Nat found a HYDRA sleeper agent that inadvertently led the Avengers to a bigger group, so they’re attacking their base in Virginia – preferably before the Nazis can cook up anything in DC, right under the government’s nose. The team is as prepared as possible for any and all unknown factors, and this time they have Hulk on standby. Just in case.

He’s about to tell his brain to suck it, because the only way to make Clint more prepared for the mission is to let him  _ sleep, _ when the door handle rattles.

Clint freezes. He locks the door at night and all Avengers know it, but someone still wants to get in. He can hear scratches as whoever it is outside works on the lock.

For some reason, JARVIS isn’t sounding the alarm. The AI is locked out of Clint’s private quarters except for emergencies, and an unknown party attempting to get into the apartment definitely counts as one. Who is it? How did they manage to deactivate JARVIS? Have they gotten to the other Avengers yet? The Tower is quiet, which means no one pissed off Hulk –  _ or _ they took Bruce down with drugs when he was asleep? 

But, everyone else lives above Clint. If they got into the Tower, they’re likely working their way up.

That’s when he realises he needs to not only defend himself, but stall and maim the enemy as much as he can before the other Avengers realise they’re under attack. Fuck, for once he’s grateful his brain kept him awake, and that he left his aids in.

There’s a set of knives strapped to the bed frame. Slowly, making as little noise as he can, he reaches for one and slips out of the bed. Sneaking across his apartment would be easier if he at least had socks to soften his steps, but he makes do barefoot.

He makes it to the door mere seconds before the lock gives. Seconds are enough, though; he’s acting mostly on instinct when the door swings in and Clint notices a silhouette – just one – in the corridor.

He grabs the arm of the intruder, using their own force against them, and has them by the neck in a blink of an eye. He can feel the muscles tense under his grip, but the element of surprise is an amazing advantage, and once you have a knife against your neck, your options are suddenly very limited. If only their hair wasn’t tickling Clint’s nose–

It’s hair he knows. The scent of a particular brand of gun oil all the Avengers use. The very familiar muscles under his grip.

He lets go of the man and moves away quickly, turning on the lights.

“Bucky! I almost hurt you, fuck. I’m sorry, I didn’t expect you to–” He frowns. To– what exactly? What was Bucky doing here, breaking into Clint’s apartment in the middle of the night?

Bucky’s eyes are on Damascus steel in Clint’s hand. They’re wide, but not with fear.

“I had a nightmare,” the man says, glancing at Clint’s face only for a brief moment. It’s enough to reveal how anxious he is. “I needed… I didn’t want to be alone.”

“So you, what? Thought that  _ picking my lock _ was the solution?” Clint asks disbelievingly. “I was awake, you knucklehead, you could’ve  _ knocked!” _

Bucky’s face twists in surprise, then crumples with shame. “I– I didn’t think of that.”

Clint hums. On another occasion, he would’ve laughed and shrugged it off. He doesn’t, now. Before he says anything, he guides Bucky a step inside with a hand on the small of his back. He closes the door; the lock is useless, but it doesn’t swing open, at least.

“And what should I do with you now?” he says then, tinting his voice with control he doesn’t really feel.

Bucky swallows heavily, shoots a glance at the weapon in Clint’s hand, and backs up until his back hits the wall. Clint takes the clue and follows him, crowding Bucky against it. The Soldier has more muscle strength, but Clint’s taller than him and Bucky needs to tilt his head back a little to look at Clint’s face. It feels appropriate for this situation.

“You did break into my home,” Clint keeps going. He’s getting carried away by the moment, he knows. There’s adrenaline in his veins, there’s Bucky letting himself be dominated, which is hot in ways Clint can’t even begin to describe with words, there’s the unreal feeling the middle of the night can give. Encouraged by Bucky’s hungry eyes, Clint ignores the voice in his head that warns he might regret it later. “Maybe I should remind you to ask permission next time.”

Bucky  _ whimpers _ in response. His pupils are blown wide, and gods, he’s beautiful like this. He’s always beautiful, but in moments like this Clint can barely resist him.

“Please.” It’s quiet, and if lipreading didn’t confirm what he heard, Clint might’ve had to ask for a confirmation. But it is a yes.

They haven’t discussed it beforehand; nothing much can happen. Of the two of them, Clint’s probably the one more aware of it. But he can play into it just a bit. 

Right?

He places his free hand over Bucky’s throat. It means he feels the other man swallow hard under his fingers and it makes him take a sharp, involuntary breath. He touches the blade of his knife to Bucky’s cheek. It’s so tempting to... mark it. He remembers a fading scrape he saw not long ago. How long would it take to heal if he cut the skin?

“Please,” Bucky whispers again. Clint looks into his eyes and sees nothing but trust and hope. He gives in, how could he not?

“You will knock next time, won’t you.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question. Bucky nods his head eagerly, and, fuck, the frantic movement is enough to actually cut his cheek– Clint’s knives are  _ always _ sharp.

That’s what he intended to do, but he’s still taken by surprise. So is Bucky. The man’s nostrils flare, and he must scent the blood, because suddenly he looks scared. Not– not of  _ Clint, _ he doesn’t think. Clint recognises the look as what he sees in the mirror after a particularly vivid nightmare. Fuck.

He moves his hand from Bucky’s neck to his shoulder, squeezes in what he hopes is a grounding, not oppressive way. He turns the knife so that the blade rests against his forearm, away from Bucky’s face. He licks his thumb and swipes it over the shallow cut. The blood is gone, and the scrape is disappearing right before Clint’s eyes, but the damage is done.

The knife needs to go, so he throws it over his shoulder at the target on the far wall. It hits the mark with a thump, but Clint’s focus is on the shivering man in front of him.

Hoping  _ really _ hard that it’s the right thing to do, he pulls on Bucky’s arm and turns him around, twisting his flesh arm behind his back. It’s not a painful hold, though it could become one fast if Bucky struggles. He doesn’t; he goes pliant and even tilts his left arm backwards in a clear, unspoken request. Clint uses his other hand to grip the metal arm behind the man’s back, too, noticing the plates slide in a shivering cascade.

Bucky could free himself in mere seconds if he wanted to; the metal arm doesn’t register pain like a flesh one would, so no painful lever can keep him from regaining control. But Bucky’s shoulders only slump forward as he sighs in relief.

Clint moves them to the couch. With a gentle push downwards, he nudges Bucky to kneel in his usual spot on the floor. They’ve done this enough for it to become pleasantly familiar, though this time Clint has one hand holding Bucky’s arms firmly behind his back, and the other pressing on the back of the man’s neck. He makes sure the hold isn’t actually painful – but makes it uncomfortable enough that Bucky has to lean forward and catch his balance with a cheek in Clint’s lap.

“Alright, Buck,” Clint murmurs softly, caressing the smooth skin right over the collar of Bucky’s shirt. “Tell me about the nightmares.”

***

They cuddle on the bed, after. Clint’s couch is comfy but not wide enough to fit them both, and Clint isn’t leaving Bucky in a vulnerable position without the comforting presence of someone he can trust. He may not be Steve, but he’s a familiar face at least.

Clint worries that Bucky might regret going along with the cuddling once he comes back from the high of letting go. He steels his heart for rejection, soaking in the feeling of Bucky’s body curled in his arms as much as he can. Good memories are worth being remembered in vivid detail. If this is all he ever gets… 

As time passes, Clint falls into a calm state somewhere between sleep and consciousness. He keeps his arm loosely around Bucky, and he tries not to think too much about the hand he has on Bucky's chest, right over his heart. They're cuddled close enough that Clint's forehead presses into the back of Bucky's neck. He can feel that Bucky is awake as well, though his breathing is slow and steady. He’s less pliant now, seemingly more composed, but his muscles are nowhere near as tense as they were when he showed up earlier. Clint only realises he’s let out a deeply satisfied hum when he hears it.

Bucky stirs, and Clint grimaces against his back. He ruined the moment. This is it. Barnes will get up, say Clint overstepped, he’ll leave and–

“Thank you.” Barnes' chest vibrates under Clint’s arms when he speaks. He sounds timid. “I’m sorry I keep coming to you all the time. I shouldn’t. It’s my own–”

Clint pokes him between the ribs with a pointed finger. “Nuh-uh. Stop right there,” he chides. “That’s  _ exactly  _ what I told you to do when you need it, yeah? That means I’m good with it.”  _ More than good, _ he admits to himself, but decides to keep that tidbit quiet.

Bucky shifts and takes a breath, as if about to say something, but in the end just exhales slowly and settles even closer to Clint. He’s pleasantly warm; his body is all muscle, solid but comfortable against Clint’s. He could get used to this, Clint thinks. He would eventually start hoping for more – who is he kidding, he already  _ has, _ which is probably a terrible idea – but he can’t help but enjoy this.

“It’s a shame it won’t last after I’m off the team,” he mutters.

Maybe it’s the late hour, or maybe it’s because he’s used to mumbling all sorts of things to himself in the safety of his own apartment, but he definitely didn’t mean for Bucky to hear it. Now the man tenses in his arms, looks over his shoulder at Clint, eyes sharp and alert, and that’s the opposite of ‘relaxed’ that Clint was aiming for.

“What?!” Bucky barks. “Why the fuck are you leaving the team?”

“Uhh…” Being the target of Barnes’ intense stare is overwhelming. Clint tries to hide his face in Bucky’s hair, but the other man’s having none of it: he turns to face Clint properly. Ugh. “I’m not leaving yet. But when the team decides I’m no longer needed…” he trails off, awkwardly shrugging one shoulder and hoping Bucky gets it without more explanation. Alas, he doesn’t.

“Why wouldn’t we need you?!” he asks, bewildered.

“Uh? I’m good, yeah, but with another sharp-shooter on the team, my injury-prone ass is the obvious weak link,” he explains. Bucky just frowns. It’s an upsetting sight, so Clint rushes to placate him. “I know how it goes. It’s okay, I’ve made my peace. I’ll be SHIELD again, we might even team up sometimes, yeah?”

Bucky’s still visibly distressed. Clint isn’t sure why, to be honest, but he adds a calming smile to reassure him. However, Bucky stares at him long enough that the smile fades away. What’s that about? What is Clint missing?

“You’re one dumb Avenger, Clint Barton,” Bucky decides finally, then he starts nudging Clint to turn around.

Surprised, Clint lets himself be manhandled until they’re pressed against each other again, but this time it’s Bucky who wraps Clint in his arms. It’s… nice. Warm, safe, and he doesn’t really want to move away.

“This okay?” Bucky whispers into his ear, and Clint shivers. He nods in reply, not trusting his voice. “Good. Now, we sleep.”

His words sound final, and like a pretty good idea, too. When Bucky removes Clint’s aids and reaches out, setting them on the bedside table, the archer is already dozing off. He can feel Bucky’s breath on his neck when he says something, but he falls asleep before he can remind himself to ask Bucky what it was in the morning.

***

The Avengers’ plan for the mission was clever and well thought out, but there’s just no way to predict every insane idea HYDRA comes up with. This time it was swarming the Avengers with untested, ghoulish, Alien-like robots fresh off the production line.

They’d need to wait for Thor’s conclusive opinion until he’s back on Earth, but Clint’s best guess is that they tried to imitate the bilgesnipes the god told them about. Clint’s kind of sad Thor wasn’t here - they missed out on some undoubtedly entertaining commentary, full of battle stories and light-hearted griping. Without him, the giant robots with lasers, fire breath and almost impenetrable adamantium cover plates just weren’t as  _ fun. _

They won, of course. It wasn’t even Code Green, and when Clint finally gets back to the quinjet, Bruce meets him by the hatch, fussing about his injuries. Clint waves him off. It’s just scratches. He’s kept his distance from the robots, and his only injuries came from a brief scuffle with a couple of goons who ran into him when he was trying to get away from the rampaging robots. He might’ve also fallen out of a tree when a stray laser beam was reflected his way and he had to duck  _ fast. _

There were a few more close calls, but they all made it back safely, and the HYDRA facility has been successfully seized. Whatever plan they were readying the robots for, it’s foiled. SHIELD is handling the situation on the ground, and Avengers can fly back home for debrief. Balance is restored to the world; the heroes can celebrate.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Barton!” 

Uh-oh. Looks like Bucky didn’t get the memo about the party, because he’s prowling through the quinjet with a positively manic expression. A quick glance at the others tells Clint that they’re at just as confused about it as he feels. 

“You saved my  _ life  _ out there!” The frenzy changes into something more familiar, and Bucky’s tone becomes exasperated. 

Clint blinks. Yeah, he fired a trick shot when Bucky was pinned down by one of the robots, and even if it had actually saved the man’s life, he fails to see how that would be any kind of a problem.

“Bucky–?” 

“Don’t you ‘Bucky’ me now, Stevie!” the Soldier interrupts. “Not before this  _ moron  _ explains what he thinks would’ve happened today if he wasn’t on the team!”

He has his fists in the straps on Clint’s armor now, and he still looks determined to make some absolutely incomprehensible point. Clint doesn’t know what to say. They’d have managed  _ fine _ without him. Okay, maybe they’d have had to call Bruce in, or re-adjust their strategy, but they would have been  _ fine. _

He has a feeling that’s not the answer Bucky’s waiting for.

“Uh,” he attempts, hoping that the words will come once he opens his mouth. No such luck.

“What do you mean, not on the team?” Steve takes a step towards them. He’s frowning now.

“That’s what I’m asking!” Bucky lets go of one strap to gesticulate at Clint, bewildered.

“Uh?” Clint’s not very eloquent, he knows, but what can he do? Ambushed like this right after a mission? Is there even a correct answer here?

Bucky breathes through his nose, apparently trying to keep his frustration in check, because when he speaks again, his voice is calmer, but strained. “Clint. Doll. I don’t know what made you think I’m here to replace you, but it’s bullshit. I’m sorry I didn’t notice it earlier or I’d have said something before. 

“You’re an excellent shot – duh, that goes without saying – but you’ve got experience with mission strategies that balances out Steve’s rushed plans. You’re a sniper, but you don’t just have the single-minded focus; you look over the whole team from above. Today you noticed when I needed your help, you made a split-second decision that likely saved my skin, and yet you still refuse to acknowledge the fact that you’re a vital part of the team?” Bucky sighs. His face softens. “The team needs you.  _ I _ need you, doll. I wouldn’t want to replace you even if I could, and I know for sure I  _ can’t. _ You’re one of a kind. You’re important. You’re an Avenger. And you’re not leaving the team unless that’s what  _ you _ want.”

There’s only bare truth in Bucky’s eyes. Clint is sure because he hasn’t been able to look away– but then it all gets just too much to bear. He swallows heavily and glances around, hoping for a distraction, but the other Avengers all look stunned, worried or, in Steve’s case, about to step in and hug him. Nat’s turned away from the quinjet’s controls with a concerned look, and that’s even more of  _ too much. _

Or maybe… not  _ enough. _

Clint’s eyes return to Bucky, who hasn’t moved an inch away. He has this stubborn, absolutely  _ endearing _ frown on his face that makes Clint’s lips quirk. Of course, Bucky picks up on it and looks at Clint with such an open, hopeful expression that Clint can’t help but smile a little more, just for him.

“Hey, Bucky,” he manages. His voice is hoarse but he doesn’t mind. “You can say no.” It carries more meaning than anyone besides the two of them knows, and it’s very important to Clint that Bucky’s aware that this isn’t a part of their arrangement. That Clint’s not in charge– and isn’t that a ridiculous idea? He doesn’t know if he’s in the same zip-code as in-control, right now. 

He finally finds the courage to finish the thought in a whisper. “Kiss me?”

It sounds more like a question than he intended, but Bucky’s whole face brightens up in an instant. His hands are still on the straps of Clint’s uniform, so all he needs to do is pull him in.

When they kiss, it's perfect. Well, objectively, it's awkward: they bump their noses when they lean in and neither of them tilts his head, and then they  _ both _ do, and they’re grinning way too much when they finally figure it out – but it's also perfect.

They part, laughing: at the awkwardness, at their team's amused wolf-whistles, at the months of build-up that led them here. They have more issues than Clint has arrows in his quiver; there's a lot they'll need to talk through, but for the time being those worries seem a world away. 

Just like with the kiss: Clint feels certain that they'll figure it all out in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you enjoyed it! Comments and kudos bring joy and inspiration <3


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